


Dancing With Myself

by Zedrobber



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who series 10
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bickering, F/M, I mean, I meant to write something worthwhile but, I saw the episode with the "IS IT WRONG I HAVE AN ERECTION" line and I'm like, I swear, Implied Doctor joining in, It's really just porn, Masterbation, incest? Masturbation?, okay, selfcest?, snark up the wazoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 03:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13627770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: PWP, Missy/Master. Not sorry. Set literally just after that rather ridiculous erection innuendo in "The Doctor Falls" because frankly WHY NOT. Read tags for warnings if selfcest ain't your jam.I promise I'll do something more plot driven at some point. (And work on my WIPS...)





	Dancing With Myself

“Yes. Very.”

She doesn’t _ sound _ as though she entirely minds, though- her heartbeats rabbit-fast, her pupils so blown they are almost black- and he swallows thickly, throat suddenly dry. Her eyes flick down, a smile playing around the corner of her lips that is almost too much, familiar and filthy and so  _ him. _ It’s almost unnerving, seeing his mirror in her;  _ almost _ , but not enough to stop the hot thread of arousal curling through him. Wrong? Probably. But who  _ wouldn’t _ want to try it- at least once- and honestly, is he really going to analyse how  _ wrong  _ and, what,  _ naughty _ he is? That’s what the Doctor is for. Well, that and a few other things. 

He has time to wonder, briefly, what the Doctor would think if he walked in on them fucking. Really it wouldn’t be  _ cheating _ , would it. More like...what? Incest? Masturbation? He’d probably  _ salivate _ at the mere prospect.

“What?” she asks, brow creasing in a way he hopes his does because it’s sort of  _ adorable _ .

“Just…” Just what, exactly? He grins, all teeth, and she mirrors him as though unconsciously. “You don’t exactly seem as though you mind.”

“I didn’t say I did.” They’re still pressed close, and he knows she can feel his cock hard against her, knows because he’s her and she’s him and the knowledge is still a bit more than he can comprehend. 

 

“Then-”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Did you have a better time? Dinner, perhaps? A movie? You can woo me if you’d like.”

He laughs, delighted and breathless, and pushes back against her, fighting, always fighting for control. She lets him, takes a step back but doesn’t take her eyes from him, wary like a cornered cat and twice as vicious.

Gods, but he can almost  _ smell  _ her, and how can she still smell like him? It’s dizzying and intoxicating and he finds himself clawing at her clothes, cursing her-their?- ridiculous fashion sense as he rips through material as though possessed. She giggles and pushes at his hands, helping him even as she clucks her tongue with irritation. 

“You’re ruining my skirts.”

“Who even wears this many layers?”

“Well evidently  _ you _ do, stop complaining and help me-”

He pushes her back, her shoulders hitting the dusty wall with a thud that he’s sure they can hear downstairs, and she lets out a sudden breath that turns into wild laughter as he finally manages to get through the last of her stupid clothes, throwing them behind him with a triumphant grin.

“Congratulations, you defeated the nasty undergarments,” she drawls. “How very manly.”

“Shut up.”

“Come here-” and it’s a command, she’s fucking  _ ordering _ him and he obeys, willingly even, frowning and annoyed and hopelessly aroused. She sets to work undressing him, and it’s painfully obvious how much more used to this they are than with skirts, hundreds of years with the Doctor making her fingers deft and quick. He doesn’t remember the last time he let someone else undress him, and he supposes he still doesn’t, considering the circumstances. She gets to her knees- delicately, ladylike and careful- to better remove his trousers and his boots, and he almost groans in frustration as her hair brushes against his cock in a way that has to be deliberate, it’s so maddening.

“Oh I’m sorry-” she says, innocent and wide-eyed. “Did I just-?” she does it again and he bites back a whine and she smiles in a way which is absolutely all him and fuck he hadn’t realised quite how attractive that smile is and is he getting  _ off _ on that? 

Apparently.

“Go fuck yourself,” he snarls before he thinks about it and she gives him a look which is halfway between delighted and despairing at his predictability. He snorts out a laugh which is quickly choked back as she replies, “With pleasure,” and takes his cock into her mouth.

 

“Fuck-”

He grabs at her hair, thankful that at least he has something to grab with this regeneration, and leans his head back. Damn, he’s  _ good _ at this. No wonder the Doctor keeps coming back. 

“Mnngh!-”

He glances back down, frowning and impatient. “ _ What?!” _

She pulls back, her lips glistening obscenely, and she licks them before answering. “No. Look at me.”

_ Well, fuck. _ He groans out an affirmative and tugs at her hair, pushing his cock back into her mouth, eyes narrowed and fixed on hers. She is so focused, her tongue wicked and the barest threat of teeth grazing against him, and it’s barely minutes before he’s holding himself upright by sheer force of will, swearing under his breath. 

“Missy-”

“Oh no you don’t,” she says, pulling back again abruptly and standing. She wipes her mouth delicately and he all but roars at her in frustration, wordless and savage, cock aching. So close, he’d been so fucking  _ close- _

“ _ Really. _ You think I’d let you come before a lady? Where are your manners.”

“Fuck manners, I’ll kill you-”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Then you’d never get to come  _ and _ you’d have to go and admit to the Doctor where you’ve been and could he please help with your little problem-”

“ _ Fine. _ Stop talking and-” he looks around, wildly, for somewhere to take this, and spots the table behind them. “There.”

“I  _ don’t _ think so.”

 

“I do.” He lifts her bodily, over his shoulder, and she scratches deep gouges up his back that do nothing to lessen his arousal, kicking and laughing and thoroughly enjoying her new predicament as he all but throws her onto the table, the wood creaking ominously under her but holding solid.

“You neanderthal,” she grumbles happily, reaching under her and tossing aside a wooden draughts board.

He flops down beside her ungracefully, wondering at the soft curves of her and rather delighted that he gets to both touch  _ and  _ be her, a narcissistic streak of pleasure thrumming through him. They are beautiful together, he can see that much; the Doctor would be utterly helpless to resist them like this.

 

“What do you want?” he asks, ungraciously. 

“A better attitude from you, for a start. Trust me, it'll be worth our while.” 

Curious, he tilts his head. “And do stop squinting at me, honestly. Did I always do that?”

“I don't squint.”

“You do. It's almost endearing.”

He makes a disgusted noise in his throat and eyes her speculatively. The urge to take, to just  _ have _ her and see what it feels like, is overwhelming. She gives him a withering look. 

“Ladies first. You have  _ seen  _ a vagina before, I assume?” 

“I had a wife,” he mumbles, and she laughs. 

“What we had was a beard, Mister-me, which is  _ not _ the same thing. And can I just say, I quite like the new one? Very dashing. I might grow one myself.”

He growls. “Just-”

“Fine, fine. I'll be quiet. Think of it like...masturbation, if it helps.”

“It doesn't.” 

 

He runs his fingertips over her stomach, experimentally, and she hums in pleasure, arching into the touch. He traces the line of her hip slowly, watching her, and then digs his nails viciously into the soft skin of her thigh. She makes a high, keening noise of pain and approval, breath stuttering, and he grins savagely. She is like him after all, it seems. He pushes her legs apart roughly, delivering a series of stinging slaps to her inner thighs that leave her writhing and grabbing at the table with clawed fingers. Oh, this is  _ fun. _ He laughs, a low, threatening rumble that makes her eyes widen and her hearts beat even faster, and he dips his head to bite at the soft skin of her red and already painful thigh, eliciting a pained half-moan that makes his cock throb in echo of her pleasure. Her fingers find his hair, tugging impatiently until he relents and shifts between her legs, finding her wet and ready. 

It should probably be a little odd- after all, this is theoretically  _ his  _ cunt, or will be- but he can't bring himself to care when he's hard and desperate and she smells just like him,  _ feels  _ like him in a way which transcends mere skin. 

 

“Get on with it, it's not a safe you have to crack,” she hisses, twisting her hand painfully into his hair. He winces and bites her again in retaliation, and she hums happily. 

 

It is surprisingly easy, once he starts, to forget that she is any different to him; he can suck a cock, he can do this, though his experience has been somewhat limited.  _ Fuck, _ he thinks,  _ she even tastes like me _ . He has tasted his own come many times over the years, every Doctor seemingly obsessed with the idea of watching him, and she is tantalisingly similar in a way that makes him groan, greedy for more, suddenly desperate to taste everything in a primal, hedonistic surge of possessive ownership that he doesn't quite understand. 

 

She bucks her hips, grabbing his hair even tighter, and he swears, reaching out and pinning her thighs down hard enough to leave bruises.  _ Explain those to the Doctor, _ he thinks smugly, and finds he can't wait to be in that conversation. 

 

She breaks free of his grip when she comes, screaming with a wordless abandon that sends a jolt right to his cock- and more than that, he finds himself  _ feeling  _ it, a shadow of her orgasm that leaves him breathless and shaking, right on the edge of his own climax and desperately trying to hold back. She laughs at his dazed expression, laughs and drags him up and kisses him, messy and sticky and bruising, and tells him, “I told you it would be worth your while,” between panting breaths.

 

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“With pleasure, sis.”

Oh,  _ that  _ is wrong, wrong and terrible and  _ fun  _ in a whole new way. Her eyes narrow dangerously and her fingers slide down to the nape of his neck and squeeze just how he likes it, and he wraps his own hand around her throat and watches the haze of arousal slide over her expression as surely as if he could feel his fingers on his own neck. 

“I could kill you,” he says conversationally, dizzy with the thought and wondering if he could do it like this.

“Not before I kill you.” 

“I know.”

“Thrilling, isn't it?” she grins, manic and feral and  _ beautiful _ , and he can't help but agree, can't help but squeeze her throat a little tighter and kiss her again, possessive and rough, feeling her nails like pinpricks in the back of his neck. 

 

He can't hold himself back any longer; he has to be inside her, has to know what it's like to fuck the closest thing to him he's ever seen. He grabs her hips and drags her towards him without ceremony, pushing inside her with brutal savagery. 

_ Fuck. _

It’s overwhelming- he has to pause for a moment to catch his breath, cock buried inside her, feeling on the edge of a precipice he cannot fall from yet. 

“ _ Fuck me-”  _ she orders, pulling him down to her, nails digging into his back in blinding hot points of pain. “I know you know how to do that, at least.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he spits between gritted teeth.

“I’m not. I’m telling me what to do, technically-  _ ah-” _

He slams into her, cutting her off with smug satisfaction, and finds he can’t stop, fucking her with bestial fury, thumb caressing over her jaw where his hand is still on her throat, the other white-knuckled on the edge of the table. She hooks her legs around his back, urging him deeper, eyes dark and wild and glorious. He releases her throat so he can brace himself to fuck her harder, relishing the harsh gasp of air she sucks in and the bruises ringing her neck as she arches it back. 

“Finally,” she says, sharp teeth glinting in a wicked grin, and he barely has time to react before she flips him neatly- a move he has used countless times on almost all incarnations of the Doctor, and one he should have seen coming. 

“Bitch-” he scowls, and she looks insufferably proud. 

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” But her expression darkens in an instant to one he recognises far too easily, one he knows ruins the Doctor’s every intention of not submitting, and a thrill of anticipation and arousal slides through him to see it turned on him.

Her nails slide up his chest, leaving red welts in their wake, and he hisses in pleasure as she drags them up his throat, baring his neck to her, eyes half-closed. “Go on then.”

 

“I wasn’t asking,” she smiles- a terrifying smile, all sharp edges- and squeezes his throat with both hands, sudden and shocking and hard enough to make him gasp out a wheezing breath, scrabbling at her hips for purchase, something to anchor him to the moment, to keep him from panicking. The shock passes quickly, adrenaline and desire thrumming through him, and he groans in approval, watching her as she starts to move on his cock, his nails digging into the soft flesh of her thighs, her hands tight on his neck and making it deliciously difficult to draw breath. He can’t die like this, of course- neither of them can- but the threat and the implicit power exchange is enough to make up for the danger being minimal.

 

She makes it feel like she is the one fucking him- and he supposes there’s not a lot of difference if they are one and the same, the constant, low level echo of pleasure making it hard to remember who is fucking who - taking complete control from him, setting her own pace which is languid and deep and rolling, infuriating and wonderful all at once until he is shaking and swearing, cursing her in every language he can remember, voice hoarse and painful through her grip on his throat. 

 

“Manners,” she warns, dangerously, and he throws back his head and groans helplessly. 

“I am not begging  _ myself _ to come.”

“Then we’ll be here a while.”

“I hate you.”

“The feeling is mutual, dearest.”

There is a sullen, stubborn silence broken only by their desperate breathing as she keeps the maddening pace, sweat shining on her chest the only betrayal of her effort. But then she squeezes her thighs and grinds against him and his eyes roll and without meaning to, barely even knowing he’s doing it, he’s speaking.

“Please, please let me come, alright? Please Missy, anything, just please-”

“Much better.” She leans down, hair brushing his face, and kisses him possessively as she shifts the angle and begins to move in earnest, and he can do nothing but grab handfuls of her hair and choke out rasping breaths as he is pulled over the edge, hearing the blood pounding in his ears. He is vaguely aware of her shuddering against him, of her warm weight on his chest, but it takes a while for him to be able to think anything coherent, let alone open his eyes again.

 

She's watching him, wary again, her face inches from his.

“Well?” she asks, and he frowns, not knowing what she wants.

“You're squinting again. It makes your face look even more r-”

“If you say round, I'm going to kill you with the draughts board.”

She mimes zipping her mouth. He rolls his eyes.

“You’re very immature.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“It wasn’t- never mind.”

She stretches languidly, rolling off him and shoving him across the table so she can lie down, and he finds he misses the heat of her like a suddenly missing limb, shocking and strange. 

“You’re not bad, for an older model,” she sighs contentedly, prodding him.

“Thanks. I think.”

“It was a compliment. You’ll know when it’s an insult.”

“I’m getting up before you start  _ cuddling _ or something.”

He rolls away, getting to his feet and beginning to gather his clothes.

“We should do this again sometime,” she suggests as she stands up as well. 

“Maybe we should let the Doctor watch.”

“Oh, he’d  _ love that.” _

 

“Yes, I did rather.”

They both look up like startled cats, eyes comically wide, to find the Doctor leaning in the doorframe with a sandwich in his hand.

“Hello,” he says dryly, waving his fingers at them. “Having some alone time?”

“Were you  _ eating _ ?” Missy says, indignant. “While we were fucking?”

“No!” The Doctor crams the sandwich into a pocket and then winces as he thinks of taking it out again later and the horror that will entail.

“Good. I’d hate to think we were no more interesting than a half time...beer advert, or something.”

“Oh, there’s no danger of that,” the Doctor says, low and almost purring, and the Master and Missy glance at each other with sudden renewed interest, raising an eyebrow in perfect symmetry. 

He steps forward and shuts the door behind him with an audible click.

 

\---

  
  
  



End file.
